


Doorsteps and Fireplaces

by ajkal2



Series: Doorsteps-verse (aka that one where dave runs away to roses) [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, bros an asshole, roses mom is conspicuously absent, runaway dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:11:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajkal2/pseuds/ajkal2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her doorstep is goddamn freezing.</p><p>--------------</p><p>For the last few days, no-one has known where Dave Strider is, except of course the boy himself.That's about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doorsteps and Fireplaces

Her doorstep is goddamn freezing. 

 

It’s also really fucking fancy. Not the sort of place you’d come within a mile of normally, but… well, you don’t exactly have a choice.

 

You can’t quite bring yourself to knock, to press the buzzer hanging by the elaborate knocker probably worth more than your entire apartment back home. It’s like. 3 in the morning anyway. So you put your back against the side of the little half room that leads to the actual door, and slide down, hunkering up against the cold. You didn’t have time to pack much, you made the decision to go, grabbed a wad of cash from Bro’s wallet, and got the fuck outta there all in the space of a single afternoon. You shiver. The cold penetrates (heh) the thin red hoodie and t-shirt combo you’ve been wearing for the last few days, and you pull your collar up to protect your neck.You frown at your fingers, and blow on them. The snow makes the thick trees look pretty, but the wind is blowing the cold right into your little shelter, making it impossible for you to relax. You rub your arms, shift a little, hunch tighter. Your breath is smokey and  _ visible _ , what's up with that? You wrap your arms around your knees, wincing when it jars your side. You look down. Ragged, bloodstained bandages pinch the skin there, hastily wrapped on the day you left. You feel them when you breathe deep, but breathing deep hurts, so you don’t do it. You let your head thunk against your knees. The cold numbs your senses, and you don’t even have enough energy to shiver anymore, you just lie there, curled up, your breath wheezing in and out. You’re so tired. After an eternity you see the first rays of light hit the trees, creeping slowly down their trunks, and hey, it’s pretty, but then you can’t keep your eyes open anymore and the trees are gone. You feel so cold, but you can’t seem to do anything about it. You can just… wait here. Yeah. Sounds good.

 

Your mind slowly shuts down.

\-----------------------

 

The post isn’t here.

 

You don’t know what possessed you with the desire to check if the American Postal system had anything for you, but you sure are glad about it, because theres a boy about your age curled up on the doorstep and he looks three-quarters dead. The suns just rising, and you see footprints in the snow from where he must have walked, but now's not the time for noticing things, this boy looks dead.

 

You hunker down, push whitish hair rather like yours aside to check his temperature. He’s freezing. You need to get him inside right away, who knows how long he’s been out here? One arm around his shoulders, one under his knees, and you heave him up, staggering under his weight though he is still very light for someone his age. He mutters deliriously, and one eye flutters open, revealing a thin line of red around a dilated pupil, then it closes again, and you drag him inside, laying him on the sofa and rushing to shut the door. Hes only got a ratty old hoodie and jeans on, and sunglasses that tipped askew when you lifted him cover his- Oh.

 

Those are the sunglasses John got as a gift. You remember, he showed you, was very excited about it, said it was the best gift ever.

 

But that means.

 

“Dave?” Your voice is a confused whisper, but you can’t dwell on the fact one of your friends has turned up on your doorstep because he’s so cold, and you can’t remember what to do for hypothermia because you can’t stop thinking about how all of you have been so worried after Dave went AWOL a few days back, and he’s so cold and he looks dead on your sofa and-

 

Focus. Heat, he needs heat, a fire and blankets.

 

You take off the shades and fold them carefully before flicking the switch next to the fireplace that sends sparks onto the wood, and the fire roars into life, sending heat and light out into the room. You drag Dave off the sofa and closer to the fire, and he stirs, twitching towards the heat as you wrap a blanket over his shoulders.

 

“Rose?” His voice is slurred, and quieter than you imagined it, and you throw another blanket at him and hunker next to him, sweating slightly from the heat the fires giving off. You take his hands, checking his fingers for frostbite, but they seem OK. His eyes are open now, and he stares at you blearily, bright red irises reflecting the firelight. You give him back his hands, and shoot him a quick smile, putting your hand back on his forehead. He’s warming up, thank god, and now a little colour is back in his cheeks you can see how pale he was before.

 

You let him get better, hands cradled around the cup of hot chocolate you pressed into them, back hunched and shuffled so close to the fire you have to make sure the trailing edges of his blanket don’t catch light.

 

His head rests on your shoulder as he snoozes, just awake enough to keep his eyelids from dropping, and you wonder how on Earth he got here. And why. Your writers brain could come up with twenty different reasons, but you still the creative side of your imagination, wanting to hear it from him.

 

Once he’s warm enough that a light sheen of sweat covers his forehead, you prod him to lie down on the sofa instead of right by the fire. You don’t think he’d be able to get all the way to the spare bedroom. He falls into a deep sleep soon after, curling up like a cat into your cushions with the rug you put over him as a blanket. You scrawl a quick note for your Mom (Friend of mine discovered on doorstep. Do not disturb. I will provide for him as long as he stays.) and tape it on Dave’s chest before ascending to your room to message the others.

 

tentacleTherapist created memo on board URGENT: Please reply ASAP.

TT: There appears to be... a Situation

TT: Capital S.

ectoBiologist responded to memo. 

EB: power rangers assemble!

EB: whats up rose?

TT: A stranger appeared half frozen on my doorstep.

gardenGnostic responded to memo.

GG: why are you telling us? take care of them!

TT: Oh, don’t worry, I warmed him up and he’s asleep on my couch.

GG: alright then.

EB: if he’s ok, why the urgent? i’m in the middle of national treasure!

TT: I think it’s Dave.

GG: what? :o

EB: dave? but he lives in houston!

GG: how did you know?

TT: He’s wearing Ben Stiller shades, is our age, and is dressed for a mild Texan winter instead of the ones up here.

EB: is he ok? how did he get to you? where has he been?

TT: I don’t know, he was passed out on my doorstep and then decolorant for a while, then asleep again.

GG: well i’m glad hes alright and safe! i was really worried :(

GG: but hes ok!!! :D :D :D

EB: well thanks for telling us hes alright! ive got to go, dads calling. probably another cake, urgh.

TT: Enjoy it.

ectoBiologist left the memo.

GG: see you john!

GG: err, sorry rose, bec’s gone mad barking for some reason!!

TT: It’s OK, I should probably check on him anyway.

GG: bye! :D

gardenGnostic left the memo.

tentacleTherapist closed the memo.

 

You close your laptop and toss it onto your bed, Dave’ll probably be asleep for the next few hours. You can sit on the second sofa while he’s sleeping, and work on your book. Or knit something.

 

\-------

 

You wake up slowly.

 

There’s a soft clickety clack, clickety clack sound, and its strangely comforting. You’re lying on something soft, real soft and comfy, and you kinda want to merge with it and become a weird amalgamation because you love it so much. You also feel warm. This must be like. Heaven. Did you die and go to Heaven? You must have. You should probably open your eyes and look around, but you can’t be bothered to really move. You roll onto your side, and curl up. Warm. Soft. Sleep again.

 

“Look whos finally up.”

 

No, go ‘way, trying to merge with soft thing.

 

“If thats your reaction to the sofa, I hate to think what will happen when we get you to one of the actual beds.”

 

You let out a sleepy grumble, and open your eyes blearily, uncurling and looking around with a big yawn. The ceiling in Heaven is high up, and white, with windows near the top letting in the sun. You’re in your hoodie and t-shirt still, with a piece of paper taped to your chest and an orange blanket draped over you. You pull the blanket over your head. Someone else pulls it off your head. You huff, and glare at the short blonde girl who removed your comfort. She raises an eyebrow at you, with a smirk to rival Bro’s, and- Bro.

 

You abruptly remember where you are, and what happened, and you’re not in the mood to merge with the softness anymore.

 

“First things first: name and pesterchum. Just to be sure.” The girl who must be Rose isn’t budging an inch.”

 

“Dave Strider, turntechGodhead. You Lalonde?”

 

“In the flesh.”

 

“Got the right place then. Good.”

 

“Want to explain why you were freezing to death on my doorstep this morning? It was rather disconcerting, to say the least.”

 

“...Nah.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nah, I don’t wanna explain. You got anything to eat?”

 

“Dave.”

 

“What?”

 

“Why are you here?” Her voice is soft this time, and her (purple? cool) eyes say she won’t give you food until she gets an answer.

 

You look away, noticing the absence of your shades as you do so. Dammit. “...Long story.” you mutter, sitting up on what you’ve realised is her couch, and swinging your legs over the side, careful of your wound.

 

“I don’t need to be anywhere.” She sits beside you, and her therapist thing is so much more effective in person.

 

“...Bro was... a dick, coin toss turned up heads, badoosh, I’m off to see the wizard.”

 

“Not so long after all then.”

 

“Yeah, well.” You shrug, glad she didn’t press for details. “Food? I’m starving, might turn to cannibalism soon, watch yourself Lalonde.”

 

“Oh, I’m trembling in my boots. It’s too late for breakfast now, would pancakes for lunch be ok?”

 

“I was right, I must’ve died and gone to Heaven.”

 

“Nearly, but not quite.” She stands, dropping the blanket, and walks gracefully out into a kitchen area kinda like the one at home. Except bigger. You push off the sofa, wrap the blanket round you like a poncho, grab your shades from the coffee table, and follow her.

 

“Pshaw, life’s overrated.”

 

“I happen to rather like it. Why no prior warning you would be visiting?”

 

“Didn’t grab my phone.”

 

“A sudden departure then.” You don’t say anything, just lean on the counter and watch her bustle around the kitchen, cracking eggs and whisking. “You feeling better?”

 

“I’m good. Got this warm-ass snuggly here.” You flap the blanket. “I gotta snuggly and a maid making me breakfast, perfect.” She gives you a flat look, hands on her hips, and prods you with the wooden spoon, right in the cut on your side, and you flinch away and hiss before you can stop yourself. Her eyes widen, and she slides the first pancake (golden brown and delicious) onto a plate and turns the gas off before giving you a look that says ExplainOrIWillKillYouSlowly. You cross your arms and turn away. She sighs, slides the pancake across the counter to you with a fork, and waits for you to start wolfing it down (so good) before whipping the blanket off your shoulders, trying for your hoodie as well as you hunch your shoulders and glare at her, but shake one arm out so she can pull it off. Your t-shirt is ripped, you were wearing it, so she can see through it to the bloodstained bandages underneath.

 

“You’re hurt.”

 

“Wowie, never would've guessed thats why theres bandages on my chest, another case solved by Detective Lalonde, good job, you’ll get a promotion soon.” You stop eating for a moment to applaud her, then get right back to eating because you’re hungry goddammit.

 

“Dave. I- Do you- How-”

 

“...Bro was a bit more of a dick than usual, and I’ll change then in a bit ok, just let me finish this. Really good by the way. A plus cooking skills.”

 

When you finish the food (no, more, shut up stomach) and set the fork down with a clatter, she’s still staring at you with a horrible mix of shock and pity, and you practically growl at her before standing.

 

“Wheres the first aid shit, I do kinda need to change these”

 

“In the bathroom, I’ll show you.” She leads the way up the huge stairs, and along the balcony, pushing open a door. “Here.”

 

\--------

 

He skulks into the bathroom, hands in his pockets, and you trail after him, not able to keep your eyes from the jagged rip in his top, edges stained with the same red that covers the filthy bandages you can just see.

 

He said his brother did that. His brother. Your Mom may be bad, but she’d never hurt you like that. No wonder he ran off to you.

 

He perches on the edge of the bathtub, rummaging through the green box with a cross on the side before pulling out some things, and setting it beside him. You hover by the doorway, hands opening and closing, not sure how to help. His top is pulled over his head and discarded, giving you a full view of the bandages that cover his torso. He grabs the scissors he had set aside from the kit, and posies them to cut down the opposite side of the bandages. It’s an awkward angle for him, so you wordlessly step in and take them from him, hands trembling a bit as you snip up from the bottom of the grimy yellow strips of cloth to the top, then letting them fall away.

 

You feel nausea twining round your gut as you look at the wound. It sweeps from his left armpit down towards his belly button, red with crusted blood. He probably had his arms up to defend his head, and the attacker (his brother) made a diagonal swipe across his torso. You gulp several times, and look up at Dave. It looks deep, and haphazard sutures cross it at it’s deepest part, stretching the skin and pulling the edges closed. Did he do those himself?

 

You gulp again, and put the scissors down, your hands shaking even more now. He reaches for the antiseptic wipe, and lifts his left arm to get at the cut, swiping down the length of it and hissing slightly as the alcohol cleans the wound. He twists to look at it, nods, and grabs the clean bandage, ripping the packaging and wrapping it round and round until you can’t see a trace of the wound, though you know it’s still there. You force yourself to look away from it, to look at his arms, and notice scars on his shoulders and upper arms, healed over but recognisably sword wounds. You know your face is white, and you somehow manage to not cry at the thought one of your best friends has been undergoing this for what looks like years.

 

“You got a shirt? Mines kinda ruined.” He speaks just like he did when you asked him if pancakes were OK, monotone and bland.

 

“Yeah, I- Yeah.” You bite your lip and stand, walking to your room and grabbing one of your purple squiddle monster tops, handing it to him, and he pulls it over his head. It’s a bit too small. He’s taller than you by an inch or so, but it’s hidden in the way he slouches. He’s almost painfully slender, but wiry muscles stand out on his arms when he lifts them to tug the edge of your top down. You don’t know what to do, so you sit carefully on your bed, and watch him look around.

 

“Never thought you’d be this messy Lalonde, don’t you have a handmaid to sort some of this out?” There’s a gentle note of teasing in his voice, but you don’t have the heart to respond. He sighs, and flops on your bed beside you, bouncing once or twice before settling, and he looks shocked at it’s bounciness for a fraction of a second before his mask goes back up. You think of how he curled like a cat into your sofa, which isn’t even very comfy to sit on, and your heart aches. “... Is it OK if I... stay here for a bit?” He fiddles with his hands, like you do when you’re nervous.

 

“Of course. You can stay as long as you like.” You make your voice as soft as his. “Want to chat with the others?”

 

A faint smile crosses his face, and you think of how he must have missed all of you just as much as you missed him.

  
“Yeah.”

  
You proceed to grab your laptop, and he proceeds to grab it from you and give John and Jade shitty impressions of your typing style on your account, and you know that everything will be alright.


End file.
